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The ultrasound continues, and I scrutinize my baby’s tiny facial features, searching for any similarities to Ethan. Will he have his unique, stormy eyes? His strong build?
In my heart, there’s a quiet yearning, a hidden wish for our son to resemble his handsome daddy.
I checkin at the Laguna Beach Resort and Spa, glowing with happiness.
This is one of my favorite places. It’s a beautiful fall day, and the sun is shining through the wall of windows overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
I’m on top of the world.
The receptionist gives me a radiant smile. “Is this your first time visiting?”
I hand her my ID. “No, I’ve been here before.”With my ex.
Memories flash through my mind before I can stop them, visions of us entangled and happy before it all went to shit. A wave ofsomethingI’m reluctant to admit rises within me, and I push it down.
It’s loneliness. It has been an emotional day.
Feeling vulnerable, I glance away to avoid any further conversation.
Then, as if my thoughts conjured him, I spot a tall, athletic, sandy-blond figure striding through the lobby as if he owns the place.
A tight fist grips my heart.
No. No. Nope. Absolutely not.
I spin around with such suddenness, it leaves me lightheaded. I duck my head while the receptionist prepares the key fob, my pulse pounding violently.
Jackson can’t see me pregnant. I’m not prepared for that monster to be unleashed. I doubt I’ll ever be.
Maybe he won’t recognize me.
Yeah, right.
Each passing moment amplifies the tension like a ticking time bomb.
Please don’t notice me. Failing that, please somehow miss my pregnancy.
The receptionist hands me the fob, and I dart toward the safety of the elevator.
From the edge of my vision, I see Jackson sliding onto a bar stool next to a blonde, grabbing my attention.
Why am I gawking? Who cares if he’s with another woman?
Before I can avert my gaze, his eyes snap to mine, and his jaw drops. A bolt of fear lances through me, and I will myself to breathe through it. Now is not the time to have a panic attack.
I jab at the elevator button. “Come on. Come on. Come on,” I mutter, attracting curious glances.
The doors open, and I dash around a couple holding hands to get inside. I punch the number to my designated floor. More people flood the small space, and I hide behind the crowd, praying to all that’s holy for the doors to shut.
All my prayers are useless, and I watch in dismay as a frantic Jackson rushes in.
Just my freaking luck.
He locks sights on me and says, “Excuse me. My girlfriend’s in the back,” and everyone jumps aside because he’s Jackson O’Reilly, revered hockey god.
I scoff at the preposterous nonsense—particularly the part where he dares to call me his girlfriend.
He leans against the mirrored wall beside me, his lopsided, boyish grin warming my insides despite my anxiety and annoyance.